


you poured the gasoline and I dove into the flames

by cicak



Series: old heat of a raging fire [2]
Category: Hitman (Video Games)
Genre: Diana Burnwood's Sex Club, Edging, F/M, Roleplay, blow jobs designed to ruin a man's life, five star hotel discourse, okay I lie there are also some feelings, subby croissant 47, summers kiss 2: electric wirealoo, this one's just porn folks, toppy Diana
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-27
Updated: 2021-02-27
Packaged: 2021-03-19 02:20:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,923
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29743485
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cicak/pseuds/cicak
Summary: Diana makes it right, she always does.(epilogue to summers kiss to electric wire aka summers kiss 2: electric wirealoo)
Relationships: Agent 47/Diana Burnwood
Series: old heat of a raging fire [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2186082
Comments: 18
Kudos: 46





	you poured the gasoline and I dove into the flames

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bourbonpowered](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bourbonpowered/gifts).



Diana leads the way out of the club with 47 hot on her patent leather heels, her white skirt swishing deliciously with every movement. All the eyes in the room are on the two of them, of course, how could they not be? Tonight will be a night that goes down in the annals of club history as the one when a man did the impossible and swept Diana Burnwood off her feet without even raising a finger. She's already a legend here, and even though it's not that kind of club, some of the men at the bar who normally salivate on cue when she looks their way were now sizing up her agent. Those boys do love to lose, and tonight they’re the biggest losers going.

Not that 47 noticed anyone but her, not up the stairs, not as she makes polite conversation with John as he makes the call to Murad waiting nearby. He doesn’t do anything but brusquely nod when John tells them Murad will be arriving in three minutes.

Prioception had never been proved to exist, but Diana's always been able to sense 47 at great distances before, she can clearly see him now, as he stands behind her in perfect repose, still as anything. In her mind's eye, his face is straight, but his eyes are alight with triumph.

She’s suddenly overwhelmed with the reality of what has happened today. That she bought down providence, and then the universe gave her her greatest desire on his knees, both of them free agents, and now they are waiting for a private car to whisk them away to new lives where they can touch any time they want and it makes her catch her breath with the realisation of it all.

"Are you alright", he growls.

"Oh, fine, fine" she says,

"You seem tense", and he’s concerned, and it's adorable.

"Yes, well, so do you." She ripostes, crooks an eyebrow even though he can’t see her, and she feels an echo of an earlier version of herself, wearing a blue trench coat, carrying a ticket to nowhere, breaking protocol to meet him in person and tell him her suspicions that there’s a shadow client, that they are being used. 

"You can't see me," he says.

"I always know," she says, flirtatiously, and this is going into truthful places, and she needs to pull it back. "I have your number, _Tobias_. I always have it, always will."

"Diana-"

"Lady Burnwood, if you please, here."

“Apologies. Lady Burnwood.”

He’s quiet for a moment, before she hears him shift his weight slightly, as if he means to step forward into her space but then thinks better of it. "You are so sure that you have what you need, Lady Burnwood. Perhaps you need someone to take care of your needs for once."

She peeks over her shoulder, lets him see her crooked eyebrow. "I thought we were going to do that? The car will be here in a minute."

"Perhaps you shouldn't have to wait that long," he says, and steps into her space, finally. She can feel the weight of him looming in the dark, feels his hand brush the small of her back through the silk of her dress.

The slit on her white dress parts easily despite the weight of the silk beneath his fingers. She feels hypersensitive all of a sudden, like the dress is a suit of armour, weighing her down, no more like holding her down. She wishes now that she had ordered him to take the edge off back in the lounge, let him eat her out again, it wouldn't have taken long, not at all. His fingers are a tease, just a brush of rough fingertips for now, but she always wants more.

She feels her phone vibrate in the pocket of her jacket, slung over her arm. Murad is a minute away. "The car is nearly here" she husks, sneaking another look over the opposite shoulder to the one he is delicately curved around. "If you're going to do it, you need to do it now."

He doesn't need further orders. One hand reaches around efficiently and slides under her skirt and two fingers are inside her cunt before she can catch her breath. She can smell how aroused she is, thick and cloying like still night air. Her lungs labour like she's been running, and she's surprised just quick and heavy her breathing has become in just a few seconds. She can't even hear _his_ breathing.

The lobby is usually such a silent space compared to the discreet murmur of the basement lounge. Maybe, if you crane your ears hard you could make out the chatter from the bar, barely audible revelry; just a suggestion of a good time. The thick front door is soundproof, same with the rest of the construction, the combination of stone walls, oak panelling, the lush silk carpet and a mile of London clay making the club a suitably silent cocoon for high-class debauchery. It's especially hard to pick out the usual ambient noise of the place now the halls are nearly-echoing with a frankly obscene slick-slick sound of 47 efficiently massaging her clit just the good side of vigorous with two of his long, strong, square fingers, nails trimmed fully down of course, his arm curved delicately over her hip, the weight of the skirt shucked up and hanging off his wrist as it moves with the effort of his firm, confident technique. His breath ghosts across the soft skin of the nape of her neck, right where she goes cross eyed but his mouth stays proprietarily away, while his other hand is massaging her arse, teasing her with the silk and the hint of something more carnal. She wishes she could see them together right now, wishes she could see how much of a mess she is in that moment, leaning against him and making him take her weight as she has her legs splayed to give him access, her hair messing itself against the fine wool of his jacket, her mouth gaping and eyes half closed with her body half exposed as she is efficiently, devastatingly frigged by someone who is, to external observation, nothing more than a bored man in a suit taking care of business. The honourable Lady Burnwood, so unable to control herself that she needs to be serviced in the lobby of her club by anyone who takes a fancy, right there where anyone could see, could watch, could _critique_.

It does not take three minutes. It barely takes 30 seconds, but she feels every single one like a countdown to takeoff, time stretching out, the way the sweet pressure builds up along her nerves, and yet how the constant background pressure of need never abates, just compounds. This isn’t a tease, this isn’t foreplay, this is a servicing. This is him doing what he always has done; her bidding. Her yelp of pleasure echoes off the hall just as Murat pulls up and beeps the born, and in the immediate aftermath of the back-of-the-head-blow of an orgasm she turns her face into his jacket and clings on for dear life, legs like jelly and her mascara no doubt smudged around her eyes. She takes several centreing deep breaths; he’s wearing Tobacco Vanille, how lovely, and then looks up just in time to see 47 sucking his fingers clean, sees the slight wrinkling of his fingertips disappear into his mouth, and up close he’s rarely looked more beautiful. She can feel how hard he is, how he moves to keep them upright and how that feels like a tiny hint at what he wished they were doing, but he doesn’t say anything, not even when she takes his fingers in her mouth, and holds eye contact for a long moment, tasting just a hint of herself on his skin. He bites back a groan and honest to god, if she hadn't already called the car she would have pushed him over the reception desk and taken him in the huge armchair nestle behind, but that of course is the moment Murat beeps again, and she cannot be bothered to deal with traffic police tonight, and so she allows 47 to open the door for her.

They bundle into the back of the car and Diana takes one look at the traffic and her watch and tells Murat to take them to The Connaught, and then to take the rest of the night off, before tinting the divider and sitting down. Her thighs are still trembling, and 47 looks out of the window and honest to god grins to himself.

"You're a smug bastard, Tobias", Diana says, appreciatively.

"I said I'd be anyone you wanted, Lady Burnwood", he says, and there's more than the usual monotone deadpan humour to his voice. The year apart has softened him in unexpected ways, made him relax somehow. When he meets her eyes, he gives her a long, sensual sweep from her smudged mascara to her shiny heels. "So it must be because you deeply desire a...smug bastard," he says, as he slides his hand beneath her skirt again, and she’s so over sensitive it hurts beautifully and she lets out a little squeak of pleasure.

She almost, almost, fucks him there, tells Murat to just drive them home after all, and she remembers how much she adores his prick, how much she wants to feel him inside her again, hot and hard and powerful, wants to be fucked hard and thoroughly with her poor naive driver hearing her scream seemingly random numbers at her climax. There’s enough space in the back that he could bend her over and really give it to her, and they’d have enough time to recover before they made it back to Buckinghamshire and be ready to go again in the comfort of her own home, with the accessories she’s always dreamed of using on him waiting for them behind thick walls.

Still, as he gently runs his fingers through her labia, teasing her clit just on the edge of soreness, she looks at him and thinks that he deserves better. He deserves to be spread out and consumed as a banquet, not as a hastily consumed meal eaten on the go. He trusts her, he’s always trusted her, and she has abused that trust over the years for the greater good, to conquer bigger evils, and yet he remains devoted, because he believes she will always make it right, and he’s right, she will. 

They pull up to the Connaught and he takes her arm as they step in. As they step over the threshold Diana gets an eyeful of the two of them, arm in arm, and they look magnificent, black and white and red personified. 

Where the club was quiet, weekends are the busiest time at London’s top hotels, and the foot traffic through the lobby on the way in and out of the bars and restaurants is significant. It's not the usual place for spur of the moment walk-in suite reservations, but Diana has been getting what she wants out of hotel staff for her entire career, and so it takes only the tiniest flex of her skills for the obsequious night manager to insist that of course, for Diana Burnwood, the Library suite will be made available, for as long as she needs. 

The suite is beautiful; she’s always loved how London’s high class hotels have clung to the art deco aesthetic even as fashions changed. The library suite has always been one of her favourites, even if it is smaller than most others in its price bracket, she has never really enjoyed rooms that are vast for no reason other than ostentatious cost per square meter. The floor to ceiling bookshelves are carefully curated, and if she had booked in advance they would have filled them with books suited to her interests, because this is that kind of hotel, it would have included _all_ her interests. 

The door closes behind them and she gives 47 less than a second to take in their surroundings before she grabs his face and kisses him voraciously. It takes him by surprise, and even so, she’s surprised by how little he’s responding. He’s stiff and keeps trying to pull his head away from her, and she pulls back and looks at him concernedly.

“I have to clear the room,” he says, abashed. “I can’t until.” He swallows and then says sheepishly, “I have to know that you, that we're, that we’re safe.”

She has missed him so dearly, not just the him from that stolen half an hour in Mendoza, but the him she’s known for twenty-odd years inside and out. She wants to tell him, but there will be time now for that kind of talk. Instead she smiles and nods and says “Go for it”, and watches as he sweeps the room carefully for the moment when he looks quizzically at the secret door to the bedroom before effortlessly finding the latch and heading in. 

While he does that, she pours them each a drink and inspects the damage to her makeup in the gleaming bar-back. It’s about as bad as she’d feared, but she’s always loved the way she looks when she’s flushed and smudged with satisfaction, so she doesn’t bother trying to fix it. When he returns, apologetic tilt to his head that he’s found nothing, she takes his face in her hands, leads him to sit on the armchair and smiles down at him. “Thank you,” and he relaxes, “I appreciate it. I wouldn’t have been able to relax if someone had been watching us I hadn’t pre-approved.”

He leans up and this kiss is lush and languid the way kisses are in the movies, and she never should have entertained the thought that they could ever be anything but incendiary. His hands tangle in her hair and she lets him find the two pins that bring down her chignon, lets him run his fingers through her hair, his eyes full of wonder and gratitude. It's moments like this that make this whole charade worth it, the danger of the club, of being vulnerable, it really is worth it to see true reverence in a man’s eyes, not one of someone, however talented, playing a role. She can always tell the real thing.

“Come”, she says, and leads him to the bedroom.

He sits on the end of the bed and loosens his tie slightly. So many of the great London hotels have beautiful rooms that look gorgeous in a glossy brochure, or are filled with art and antiques that she would gladly have in her own home, but so many of them lack the certain something that makes you actually want to have sex in them. The reason she loves the Library suite is that despite its gimmick and its frippery, the bed has been designed by someone who knows why a significant portion of people will spend upwards of thousands of pounds per night. It dominates the room, obscenely wide somehow, like you could have a full orgy and still room to spare for hangers on. She likes the idea of it, even if in her single mindedness all the men in her fantasy are him.

Diana perches on the vanity and watches him in the mirror as she prepares herself. “Have you ever thought about me sucking you, Tobias?” she says idly, as she toes off her shoes and digs her toes into the thick carpet. Her earrings are long and risk tangling in her hair now it’s down, so she sits down and takes them off slowly, places them in the little art deco tray provided for the task that sits on the vanity, while she watches him in the mirror. “Have you heard what the boys down the club say about that? Maybe they don’t think I do, maybe it's a myth that Diana Burnwood goes down on her knees, and well, while I do prefer gentlemen who keep their mouths closed about _my_ tastes, I’ll let you in on the secret, since you’ve been so good. Tonight, I am going to do you the honour of sucking your brain out through your prick, if you desire? I must admit,” she says, dropping her eyes down to undo the clasp of her necklace before finding his gaze again, “it's been a while, but that’s because when I do it I go _all in_.” 

She looks at herself in the mirror, and rubs her lips together, as if checking her lipstick. She reapplies it from her clutch, telegraphing the whole rigamarole, the unclicking of the sleek black packaging, the twist that exposes the head, and then the swipe of deep blood red across each of her lips. She wants him to see the fresh paint, see the potential evidence, think about how it’ll look smudged around the base of his cock and ground into the grain of her mouth when she’s finished with him.

“My record is an hour and a half”, she says, the punchline anything but funny but hits just as effectively as the best crafted routine, and in the mirror 47’s eyes flutter closed.

She stands up and stalks over to him and in one fluid motion climbs over him like a predator. He leans back on his elbows beneath her, then he’s shifting backwards until he’s reclining stiffly on the bed, still taut as a drum, waiting for her to release him from where she put him. She feels like a big cat, prowling over her prey with a pelt of cream satin and a mane of red hair. She so rarely wears it down, that it still surprises her to feel it brushing against her neck like a lover. She imagines how the shiny black patent of her shoes look, their soles red as blood and only ever scratched by the fingernails of willing tributes, and in her fervour she _bites_ his mouth, caught in the fantasy, and pushes against his chest until he lets go of his iron spine and _bends_.

Beneath her thighs the cotton satin sheets feel more luxurious than even the silk of her dress and he looks gorgeous spread across it, a full sensory feast. She tilts her head and commits the vision to memory. It’s spectacular; the whites even complement each other, as if this was planned to be picture, already colour matched in post as a documentation of her erotic power. The black cashmere of his suit absorbs the low, warm light from the old-fashioned bulbs, setting the burnished glory of his summer’s kissed skin against the crisp white of his shirt and the blood-red tie, lose, top button undone, his vulnerable throat exposed for her delectation. Together, they are a matched set, opposites and yet the same, beautiful and powerful and purposely, deeply erotic. 

“Listen to me Tobias,” she murmured quietly into his ear. She has no need to raise her voice; he has always hung off her every word. “You’ve been very good, and so I am going to be very good to you. I want you to just relax, lie there, and enjoy yourself.”

There is always going to be a different power dynamic between what she does tonight and the kind of blowjob that is given up and down the country. She's not reciprocating. She's not thankful or pleased or glad or even in love. Not that any of those things aren’t true, she is in love, she is glad and pleased and forever thankful, and this is an expression of it, but this isn't that kind of expression of love. This is an expression of something that isn’t captured easily in mere words.

“Don't come”, she says in his ear. “If you come, it's over.”

It sounds like a threat but it isn't. He's a man in his late 50s, however well preserved and genetically enhanced he may be. A single time will be the end of tonight. She means to make it count, make his orgasm a full stop rather than a comma. Perhaps he could go again, but it wouldn’t matter; this is going to be a performance, and his orgasm will be the final crescendo. Diana knows as well as anyone that the encore is never as good as the full show.

“You can touch me”, she says and when he starts to reach for her she shakes her head. “Just not with your hands. Keep them where I tell you to keep them. For now, above your head is perfect.”

She watches the rules wash over him as he moves to place his hands demurely above his head on the plush feather pillows. He's very beautiful. He's very hard. He haunts her best dreams and her most fearsome nightmares. He’s sprawled on a bed so big the mattress must be custom made, and his head is tilted back, breathing deeply, his throat pulsing as he swallows around air as she delicately drags her fingers across the impressive prick outlined in his trousers.

Oh, she fully intends to enjoy herself through this.

Undressing him is a treat, its every christmas and birthday at once, especially since though she saw him a year ago, it's never been enough as it is at that moment when its her fingers in his seams, her in charge of revealing all that skin at her own pace, revelling in the discovery of each odd freckle and mark from a life well lived, every one of them because of her actions, her decisions, her actions as the safety to his firearm.

She lied to him a bit, she doesn’t do this, hasn’t needed to do this for years. She likes to be fucked, she likes the feeling of a man she’s driven to desperation move against her skin, between her thighs or her hands or against her arse, but yet for _him_ she is desperate. She always has been, or perhaps has been driven to it through all the deeds they have done, working asynchronous for the greater good. 

Of course his dick is perfect; every part of him was designed to be by men obsessed with male beauty. How many clones did they dispose of for leaning a little too much to the left, or for not having sufficient girth? Perhaps none; perhaps this was just a side effect of fevered male supremacist dreams made good. 

She kisses the head of his prick and smirks at the perfect print of her lipstick, perfectly placed around his slit, a tiny mouth within a mouth. Her mouth craves him, and so she glances up to make sure that he is watching as she opens wide and closes her lips around him and slides down, a slick swallow of a glide all the way down. The rhythm is easy, and if she was using this as a reward as part of foreplay she’s fairly sure she could make him spurt within a minute, especially if she uses her tongue the way she once was told was good enough to make a man confess to anything by the old instructor at the ICA academy. (The ICA never sanctioned this kind of approach officially, but that doesn’t mean over the years they never trained their operatives to be able to take advantage of any situation that may come to hand. Or well, mouth. 47 never attended any of those seminars, though whenever she got the email announcing the dates it would be running she wasted several indulgent minutes of company time wondering whether he would take to choking on cock as well as he took to everything else.)

The key to a blow job good enough to ruin a man’s life is similar to successful handling of an agent in the field; be flexible, be aware of your surroundings and be prepared to go against the flow. She’s always liked the amine tang of male arousal, even if a throatful of spunk has never been her idea of a good time, small, well earned drops of precum are just enough to hint at it without being overwhelming, and it is the best indicator of how close to coming he is.

The first rhythm she sets is carefully calibrated to be just a shade below what he actually needs to come, and every time he starts to get into it, she changes the rhythm subtly, whether pulling off as if to dramatically get air, and let him see how flushed and dewy she is from the exertion, before going back in and taking it even slower, with more suction, more soft, fluttering tongue, more heavy breathing, a warm hand cupped around his testicles, stroking his thighs, letting him feel the brush of her breasts, her candy pink nipples hard and sensitive where they rub against the inside of her dress, threatening to escape. She pushes the rhythm hard, bringing him up until the edge, feeling his muscles tighten in preparation of coming, then there’s the great moment she’s been waiting for, been planning since she decided she had to do this or she would die, the moment when she pulls off and wips her mouth and he groans and twists in erotic desperation, his eyes accusatory for a moment, betrayed like she’s poisoned him again. She enjoys it, loves it, and possibly the best part is letting him catch her smile before she takes him all the way down again, letting him feel her laugh around his dick like the whole thing is just a lark, just a jape, just Diana having some _fun_.

“Please, Diana”, he whispers, the third time she stops him from coming, this time with a strong hand to his balls, holding him in place. She isn’t beyond using her bad-news voice to command him to stop coming if he gets too close, but so far he has been very good. If she isn’t mistaken, she thinks as she works his testicles between her fingers, he’s definitely fuller than when she started. Intriguing. Something to experiment with in the future, for sure.

He groans something that sounds like words, and she ignores it for a long moment before replying.

“What was that, Tobias?” she says sweetly, with an arched eyebrow. 

“Please, please, I need it, I’ll do anything, let me fuck you, let me touch you, let me, _please_.”

She wraps one delicate hand around and gives him a single pump and he gibbers, and god, the power, it is intoxicating, she’s so ready to end this and ride him into the sunset, but she promised this would go the whole way, and so she climbs over him, lies on top of him with her legs either side of his dick and croons in a low, teasing voice “Oh, who would have ever guessed that when you get desperate you get _chatty_ , that should be in your file. Ripe for exploiting, a weakness like that. They used to kill agents for lesser weaknesses. Aren’t you lucky that I’m the only one who knows it?”

“Yes”, he replies, and the honesty in that one word is enough for her to take pity on him. She swallows him down and this time, the pressure, rhythm, cadence and advance tongue work are working together towards a singular goal.

This has gone too far, she thinks, as she feels tiny thrusts of a man about to pop and _lets_ him lose control, _lets_ him fuck her mouth just a bit, and then there’s a few seconds of complete lack of rhythm and then he groans and the first shot goes straight down her throat but the rest floods her mouth, and whatever changes the edging experiment made paid off because it is copious, far too much even if she was in the business of swallowing, so when she lets his come slip down her face she feels it slide down her chest and soak ruinously into her beautiful dress, all the while she hears him calling out her name like a litany, like a prayer; “Diana, Diana, Diana!”

“Yes, 47” she says quietly, “I’m here”, as his dick finally stops, and yet his face cracks into a broad smile at the sound of her using his name.

When she comes back from the bathroom, taking a moment to really appreciate her own satisfied smirk in amongst the ruins of her makeup and his DNA, before stripping off her dress, cleaning her face and turning off the light and climbing into bed with him.

She thinks maybe he’s asleep, he’s lying so still, but when she lies down she realises that his eyes are open. “I’m sorry” he mumbles, “for breaking character.”

She takes his hand under the sheets, and pulls him close, and kisses him softly, truthfully.

“You must know that all I want is you, 47,” she whispers. “The real you, the one only I know.”

There, in the dark, whatever they are now, the world remade and saved by their hands, and whatever they become, the unnamed thing is safety and comfort. They fall asleep together in the huge bed, locked away in secret in an ancient, sinful town that has kept bigger secrets than theirs, but they could be anywhere, and the bed may as well be a single, for how close they end up entwined. 

**Author's Note:**

> Well I always felt this story wasn’t “done” with the last chapter, I just didn’t have a good idea what to write for a summative sex scene. Thanks again to bourbonpowered for taking advantage of the time difference to send me inspiration just as I’m getting ready for bed and therefore at my most impressionable to gifs of suited hands slipping under white skirts. I wrote the first draft of this on my phone in bed and then had to SLEEP and it was a STRUGGLE, let me tell you.
> 
> Things I did for this chapter: research what the daughter of a baronet’s courtesy title is, look at various 5* london hotels’ suites, drink a bottle of argentinian malbec (from Mendoza, of course). Diana is not actually a Lady, as the daughter of a baronet she isn’t entitled to any titles, and under primogeniture she wouldn’t have inherited her father’s title (it would have gone to James, had he survived, but without him the baronetcy is dead.) However, hear me out, none of this matters and the aristocracy is a blight upon British society and should have been abolished long ago and if Diana wants men to call her Lady Burnwood then that's her prerogative. 
> 
> Title from Hit and Run by Lolo. Come interrogate me about why I haven't consummated the fuck cabin yet at my tumblr, [cicaklah.tumblr.com](http://cicaklah.tumblr.com)


End file.
